


Forgiven

by Arinia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Ending, Aziraphale/Gabriel is Hinted At, Character Death, Heavy Angst, Lost Love, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tragedy, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: Agnes Nutter was dragged away to the stake before she could pen her final prophecy about "playing with fyre".400 years later, an angel and a demon pay the ultimate price.





	Forgiven

**Author's Note:**

> This might be one of the bleakest things I've ever written, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. As the tags say, there's unfortunately no happy ending here.

White.

Whiter than the cleanest hospital on Earth. Gleaming, so that one’s reflection stared back at them wherever they looked, showing every wrinkle and flaw that disgraced these sterile halls. Nothing was out of place, nothing hidden away. 

His shoes don’t belong here; they’re decidedly _other._ Brown and worn, with delightful little scuff marks that tell a story of a life well lived. Shoes that had brought him to hidden spots in the heart of Paris filled with crepes and pastries. Had allowed the littlest trickle of water into his socks as he strode along the Nile river. Had sat side-by-side shoes wrapped in snake’s skin, inches apart, but always together. 

They were alone now. Their companion meters away, flecked with blood, unable to cross the impenetrable abyss between them. 

He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want eyes to travel up the too-tight pants and the vest that hugs every curve and bone like it was made exclusively for one being alone. Looking makes it real, throws into sharp relief what he had been running from for thousands of years. If he closes his eyes he can wake up in a bookshop intact, a mug of cocoa still warm, and arms secure around his middle. 

He looks. He looks and sees the face he has etched into memory. The high cheekbones carved from perfect marble, the yellow eyes that have torn him asunder and made him whole throughout eternity. 

He looks and he breaks; shattered glass into tiny, irreparable fragments. 

= = = =

_It’s quick._

_They should have known it would be quick. Efficiency is what they prize above all else. Aziraphale can’t remember if it has always been this way, but it certainly is this way now. Crowley is beside him, and their hands are close enough to touch. Aziraphale longs to broach the barrier. They’ve touched before, unsure and frightened. _

_That’s not what he wants. He wants purpose and certainty. To trail hands over skin, fist them into dark clothes, and crash lips together. Crowley is begging him one more time to escape to the stars. Alpha Centauri. He had stitched it together himself; woven the atoms into a masterpiece of nebulas and swirling colours. He knows every speck of dust, knows they would be safe. _

_All Aziraphale can focus on is the hand close to his. He’s tempted to give in. To make up for so many years of missed opportunities and chances. To heal the hurt he had inflicted upon Crowley only hours ago. What other choice has he? He looks at Crowley, swallows at the panic and desperation laced in every line. Crowley, always stoic and unshakable. They’ve run out of time._

_He lifts a hand, intent on sealing his destiny, when the world goes dark; the air vanishes, sucked into an inescapable void. A multitude of hands grab him, voices singing their destructive wail, and he is screaming, screaming for Crowley, screaming for God. A million eyes blink at him, a burst of colour and righteous fury, all his power snatched away from him. _

_It’s over before it begins._

= = = =

“Aziraphale.” 

He has never hated his name more than said in that silky, slippery voice. Clear as a bell, powerful like the crashing waves of the ocean. It beckons humans when it deigns to speak to them, less and less as time marched on. He won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Eyes only for Crowley, and he fixes his gaze, willing his cheeks to dry. 

“Aziraphale, please.” 

The air shimmers; a compulsion, and Aziraphale’s entire body contorts and spasms as his eyes are ripped away from Crowley to the angel that stands before him. On Earth he is considered beautiful. Perfect from the thick, dark hair adorning his head, to the impossibly violet eyes that regard him. There are whispers that he is God’s favourite, the most splendid of all their ranks. 

“This has all gotten out of hand, hasn’t it?” 

His throat is parched; swallowing gives no relief. The river of life that had once flowed here has been locked away, unsightly and garish. A cracked tongue attempts to wet his lips, that little bit of control he still has left. 

“Yes. Yes it quite has.”

He needs to be brave. To fill his soul with purpose. He has been running from his fate for too long, but it was always inevitable. Fear had kept him in line, even when he felt the tendrils of doubt flicker into his mind with every laugh shared, every wink, every glass overflowing with drink and memories. Crowley’s hate burns in this too perfect, gleaming room, and he sucks it up, lets it sink into his blood; every pump of his human heart chasing away the false idol he had worshipped. 

“It’s my fault, truly. I owe you an apology, Aziraphale.” Gabriel leans down, eyes meeting his. He had adored those eyes once upon a time. A pillar of strength. His shining star, even when another beckoned to him, filled with unconditional love. He has wasted so much time, curses himself it took until the end to realize what he had all along. 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ve already made my decision.” He clamps down on the terror that threatens to engulf him. There is no time for half-measures, not anymore. He seeks out Crowley once more, every fibre of his being longing to be by his side. He imagines hands winding through his hair, lips marking stars along his back. He imagines all the things he had locked away, here in this paradise he had once called home. 

“You have?” Surprise. A rare emotion on such a flawless face. It doesn’t suit him. Too human, too mortal. Aziraphale sets his shoulders, stares into those eyes that hold no life, frozen like twins chips of ice. 

“I’m forsaking Heaven. I choose Hell. I choose to Fall.”

= = = =

_Crowley’s flat is bare. A grey-washed entity that plays tricks on his eyes and reminds him too much of what he has spent 6000 years escaping. He stares at the eagle, sees the scorch marks from all those decades ago. Crowley is behind him, and the air trembles with his very presence. _

_“Angel.” One word that pierces him. Sorrowful and pleading. Commanding and hopeful. Hands hesitate, he can see them out of the corner of his eye. He wills them to find his shoulders. They have nothing left to lose._

_Instead they fall to his side, and Aziraphale turns around. He is weary, yet adrenaline will not let him sleep. Not for the first time can he feel the weight of immortality crush his spirit, knees threatening to buckle, unable to carry on. _

_“How long?” It carries a multitude of inquiries. He wonders what Crowley will choose. Even now he can’t bring himself to take the first step. Coward. Soft. _

_“Soon, if I know them.” Aziraphale deflates. Time is slipping through his fingers, pooling around their shoes. He had never given much thought to time. He had plenty, too much to know what to do with. He wonders if this is how humans feel at the end of their lives, staring at Death’s eerie visage as the lights dim one by one. _

_“Crowley.” He can’t hide the longing anymore. A burst of hatred storms over him at the sunglasses, and before he can talk himself out of it, he’s yanking them off, ignoring the alarm that crosses Crowley’s face. He needs to see him. All of him. _

_“Angel.” A whisper this time. He inches closer. A name more ethereal than the one assigned by Heaven. Aziraphale doesn’t step away. Crowley swallows, eyes flicking above and below, before settling back on him. His gaze has always weighed so wonderfully on him. “If... I mean... if this is the last...”_

_Aziraphale wants to urge him on. Wants to hop across the last step of a long bridge he has been walking. Every ounce of him pulling towards Crowley and yet he stands still, chest rising and falling, only his thoughts moving forward. _

_Crowley is nearing now. Just like at Tadfield Manor. When hearts exploded against each other, skin on skin, the tick of the clock one second closer to the End. Aziraphale’s lips pucker expectantly, begging without a word being spoken. _

_He owes it to Crowley to reach out. To take the gift that has been offered over and over, without fanfare, without expectations. A demon with temptation and destruction hard-wired into his core, who still refuses to drag Aziraphale down with him. _

_And yet._

_He can’t bring himself to do it. _

_He steps back, and the anguish that cascades over Crowley’s face is nearly too much to bear. It’s still too fast, even now, even with the forces of Heaven and Hell joining together to rain torment down on them. For so long he has walked the tightrope, never slipping, not once, no matter how much his hands twitched and trembled for Crowley’s slender fingers. _

_It’s too much to take the plunge. Not after losing his bookshop. Not after fighting with Crowley, spilling words that had ripped his heart right out of his chest. Not after seeing Gabriel’s frosty gaze pierce him, accusing him of ruining everything. _

_“I’m sorry... I just...” He feels the smooth stone eagle up against his spine; blaming him for his cowardice, for stringing Crowley along yet again. _

_Crowley’s sunglasses are back on, hands shoved deep into his smoke singed pants. “It’s fine, Aziraphale. Whatever. Should think of what the fuck we’re going to do.” _

_He turns, a note of finality ringing in the air. Aziraphale watches him, tears blurring his vision, and he vows to himself that when all this is over, he’ll be brave. He’ll take that final step into Crowley’s arms. _

_Just wait for me one more time, he silently pleads. Just once more._

= = = =

“Aziraphale! The fuck are you playing at?!” 

Crowley is straining against the sigil binding him in place, yellow eyes blown out wide, scales dotting over those sharp cheekbones. A flicker of doubt; Crowley sounds so tormented, so furious with him. Crowley never discussed his Fall, but Aziraphale had seen the scars seared into his flesh, immune to any miraculous healing (oh he had tried, one drunken night when Crowley had let down his guard). 

Crowley had done everything in his power to protect him from that fate. 

Aziraphale squashes the doubt, forces it down to the soles of his feet and trickling out against the too white floor. Being cast out from Heaven had ruled his life for too long. Undeserved loyalty and for what? To be tied to a chair, caged like an animal, all for wanting to spare the lives of God’s creations? Hell terrifies him, but a life without Crowley terrifies him more. 

He wishes he hadn’t been so foolish for so many years.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Gabriel looks anguished. As if Aziraphale has struck him, and he’s leaning away now, disbelief colouring those perfect features. Aziraphale wavers, wobbles, for a fraction of time, but he can still fell Crowley’s energy pulsating with every beat of his heart, and he knows what he’s done is right. 

“You’re choosing them over us?” Barely a whisper yet it echoes, accusatory, little cuts flecking Aziraphale’s skin. “You’re choosing _him?_” Aziraphale looks up, trails his eyes over plump lips and flawless teeth, and lifts his chin in open defiance. 

“I do. So, I beseech you to let me go and get on with it, as it were.” 

The silence is suffocating, and Aziraphale’s skin itches with dreadful anticipation. Gabriel is still looking at him with wide eyes; he has not seen such rawness from the archangel for thousands of years. 

And then there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and Aziraphale wishes even more desperately it belonged to Crowley. “Aziraphale.” A sigh, a soft breeze ruffling his hair, and he can hear Crowley snarl and curse from afar. “There’s no need for such hasty decisions. We’re family, after all. We believe in second chances.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open and his eyes dart to Crowley once more. The other angels are moving towards him, there’s gilded flasks in their hands, and Aziraphale’s heart jumps into his throat. 

“_No!_"

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s hand is still on his shoulder; there’s a strange heat racing down into his arm, locking him in place. “I should never have left you down on Earth so long. If I hadn’t, maybe-” there’s a shuddering breath, violet eyes suspiciously wet, “maybe you wouldn’t have given into such temptation.” 

He realizes too late what is happening. 

The flasks are held high above Crowley’s head. Someone is screaming, it might be him, his True Voice leaking out in fits and starts, making the windows shudder from the intensity. Begging, pleading, straining against the hand forcing him into the chair, ropes digging into his flesh and making warm blood burst from his wrists. 

Crowley’s eyes are wild. He’s frightened, and seeing such fear cuts Aziraphale into tiny, insignificant ribbons. Crowley’s hands are outstretched, Aziraphale leaning forward as much as he can, just a few more inches and they can escape, be back in the bookshop in their little oasis. 

“Crowley!” Sobs bubble forth, holy tears streaming down his face, and he’s begging God to intervene because Crowley is good, he’s not like them, punish Aziraphale instead, anything but this. 

“Angel! Angel, I-”

His last words dissolve into shrieks, inhuman and pleading for mercy, and Aziraphale feels as if his entire essence is collapsing in on itself. Chest caving inwards, head thrown back, his True Voice ripping out his human vocal cords and filling the room with its grief filled screams. Crowley is gone, he’s gone, he’s gone-

Time ceases to exist. The room smells of singed paper, curled at the edges, memories crumbling into dust and returning to the stars. There is a gaping emptiness, exposing his very flesh. Mind refusing to believe the mangled pile of clothes on the floor is Crowley, his true North Star, guiding him through all of humanity’s turbulence. His tears are bloody, dripping down pallid cheeks and staining cotton he had cherished so fastidiously. 

Crowley’s name is a forbidden prayer, burning his lips, and he drops to his knees as the ropes fall away. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Crowley never heard those words. Never believed a foul creature such as himself deserved an angel’s love. Aziraphale had kept it from him, a talisman that Crowley could never earn, no matter how much he tried. Aziraphale screams again, wills his Voice to bring Heaven down into the festering gutter with him. 

A sturdy hand guides his chin upwards, wiping the blood away, gentle, so gentle, and Aziraphale damns him, calls upon all the forces of Hell to destroy his brothers and sisters. 

Gabriel ignores him, sniffles, and places a soft kiss on his brow. 

“You are forgiven.”

**Author's Note:**

> If it's any consolation, I doubt my incessant desire for happy endings will ever allow me to write anything as grim for these two ever again, and the next Good Omens fic I'm working on is decidedly more upbeat. Still, I hope there could be some sort of catharsis gained from this.


End file.
